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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640005">Valmont: Excerpts from the journal of the Chevalier Danceny</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/stew'>stew (julie)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dangerous Liaisons (1988), Les liaisons dangereuses | Dangerous Liaisons - Choderlos de Laclos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, Canonical Cruelty, Canonical Miscarriage, F/M, M/M, Non-Canonical Happy Ending, Seduction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>1992-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>1992-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:28:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/stew</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I  have met so many worthy people through the Marquise’s kindness, but of them all  I shamefully admit I like the Vicomte best.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Chevalier Danceny/Cécile de Volanges, The Chevalier Danceny/Vicomte de Valmont</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Valmont: Excerpts from the journal of the Chevalier Danceny</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><strong>Warnings:</strong> Canonical cruelty, manipulation, seduction and betrayal! Canonical character death. Canonical miscarriage. But if love wins then there’s hope of a happy ending.</p><p><strong>First published:</strong> in my zine Homosapien #2 on 10 May 1992.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Valmont </h1><h2>Excerpts from the journal of the Chevalier Danceny </h2><p>♦</p><h3>5 August 1788 </h3><p>I was at the opera tonight, a sublime rendition of Gluck’s <em>Iphigenie en Tauride</em>. There I met the  Marquise de Merteuil, and with her was… How can I write this so calmly? </p><p>The music had moved me to tears. At the interval I go to  visit the Marquise, the most charming and accomplished woman of my  acquaintance, a truly kind lady who deigns to befriend me – I am after all  merely a music teacher, a younger son with no fortune or lands, a simple  Chevalier of the Order of Malta. And she introduces me to the young daughter of  her cousin… </p><p>I hardly know how to begin to describe the young lady  without falling into cliché and worn language. Those who have used such words  before me cannot have felt half of what I do – and the uniqueness is due not to  any great sensibility on my part, but to the rarity of an object truly worthy  of these emotions. </p><p>Cecile de Volanges – her name is enough, surely. But, no,  let these pages witness that she is the perfectly formed bud of an apricot  rose, pale and fresh and dewy in the first light of the sun. It is far beyond  me to foresee how beautiful Cecile will appear in full bloom, when she is already  such perfection. She is artless grace and purity incarnate. She is –</p><p>Ah – enough of words! They can do her no justice. </p><p>♦</p><h3>6 August 1788 </h3><p>God has blessed me. I have literally walked on air from the  Marquise de Merteuil’s townhouse back home, indiscriminately smiling at all in  my path like a simpleton. </p><p>I went to visit the Marquise to pay her my respects and – it  seems ludicrous not to admit it, when even she knew – to learn what I could of  Cecile de Volanges. </p><p>The young lady’s mother – the Marquise’s cousin – was there  also and, before I knew it, she had employed me to teach music to my new love,  to my Spring rose. I am to conduct my first lesson tomorrow at midday. I can  scarcely contain my impatience to be with her, to hear her sing, to share the  joys of music with her. Cecile… </p><p>♦</p><h3>19 August 1788 </h3><p>I could not wait any longer. The dear girl was but lately  cloistered away from society, safe from the notice of such daring young men as  myself. She deserves better than me, but I could hold my silence no more – I  passed Cecile a note declaring my love for her. I slipped it between her harp  strings as she tripped her long fingers from note to note. In her innocence,  she barely knew what to do, but she at last hid the paper from her mother’s  view. Now I must wait to see if Cecile will honour me with a reply. </p><p>I hardly know myself any longer. Indeed, I suspect that I do  not exist but for what Cecile will decide to make of me. </p><p>♦</p><h3>27 August 1788 </h3><p>I am by turns elated and cast down. Cecile feels everything  for me that I, <em>sans</em> humility, could  wish for. Yet she has been so little in the world – perhaps I take unfair  advantage of her generous and innocent heart. She writes to me in language at  times endearingly halting. A girl not long from a convent cannot be used to  composing love letters. </p><p>But Cecile tells me today that she is intended elsewhere.  Her mother has arranged a marriage for her to an older man, a Colonel of a  distinguished Regiment. I am unsure – her note was obviously written while  upset. Cecile only discovered this news through the Marquise – whom I hope has  my interests at heart. My sweet Cecile tells me that she is provided with a  large dowry, which she curses. She cries, ‘If only I could be poor and free to  marry where I choose!’ </p><p>I hardly know what to think. Would not Cecile be better off  with this Colonel, someone she need not be ashamed of? And yet I cannot believe  she does not feel for me everything she declares, all the finest and purest love  I could ever have dreamed of wanting. But perhaps this is the first flush of  life she has experienced. Maybe, being an almost equally innocent youth, I am a  fitting object for her affections as she first enters the world, her promise  yet unfulfilled. Maybe in time as she blooms, as she fully achieves all she is  destined for – maybe then she will be far beyond me and my humble love. </p><p>I don’t know which way to turn. But perhaps my friend  Valmont will deign to help me. The Marquise de Merteuil has promised me on his  behalf that on his return to Paris he will be my confidant and adviser. </p><p>♦</p><h3>7 September 1788 </h3><p>The Vicomte de Valmont has paid me the honour of a visit to  my humble rooms, asking me to dine with him this evening. I have met so many  worthy people through the Marquise’s kindness, but of them all I shamefully  admit I like the Vicomte best. Except for my dear Cecile of course! </p><p>The Vicomte is an utterly charming man; he is wicked one  moment, delightful the next, and then both the moment after that. Proper people  everywhere gossip about him, and call him unscrupulous – I have heard him  talked about too often as a romancer and a seducer to doubt his sorry  reputation isn’t in some way earned. ‘Sorry’? The adjective he himself uses is ‘appalling’.  And yet, he is received by society everywhere he goes – and is a particular  friend of the Marquise even though she is propriety personified. Perhaps his  charm and personal graces (he is a handsome man, with a fine figure) count for  more than his wickedness.</p><p>He has been away from Paris for some weeks to visit with his  aunt, who is also a friend of the Marquise de Merteuil’s and of Cecile’s  mother. I look forward to renewing my acquaintance with the Vicomte. How kind  of him to seek me out immediately on his return! </p><p>But I must break off now to write to my sweet Cecile. I have  had a letter from her daily this past fortnight, and do not wish to encourage a  lapse by my own example… </p><p>♦</p><p>Summer is giving way to Autumn, with its delightfully crisp  mornings and long clear afternoons. The leaves are turning to magnificent red  and gold fire. Yet there is Cecile, a Spring nymph, all pale limpid beauty  furled tight.</p><p>♦</p><h3>8 September 1788 </h3><p>Again, I know not what to write. But for no pure reason,  this time, for no youthful sighing over an innocent love. I search for words,  yes, as I did when I first met Cecile – but how can I even write her name on  the same page as Valmont’s? I search for the right words to tell of a love less  noble. No, call it what it is – base lust. </p><p>Valmont, my <em>friend</em> Valmont, certainly deserves the appellations ‘romancer’ and ‘seducer’. But I am  horrified to admit it – he has seduced <em>me!</em> Me – the Chevalier who had barely been aware that such things could occur  between two men. Who had never even dreamed of doing this – Who used to pray to  be worthy of the purest young girl who ever graced God’s earth. Who is now  reeling in disbelief – </p><p>Perhaps I should try to pull my thoughts into order. If I  write down what happened and how, there is the scantest hope it will begin to  make sense to me. This journal has served that very purpose before now, though  for less scandalous matters! </p><p>But how can it ever make sense, when I have betrayed Cecile’s  love, compromised my vows to the Order of Malta, outraged all that society  considers proper and decent – Enough wailing, Danceny! </p><p>♦</p><p>The Vicomte sent his carriage to collect me, we were to dine  at his townhouse. I drank a little of his strong wine as we ate, enough to  loosen my tongue and confess all I felt – no, still feel – for poor Cecile. He  seemed charmed by my outpourings, and indulged me as I babbled on. And then he –  philanderer that he is – told me that he, too, has found love. </p><p>It seems that a Madame de Tourvel, a young woman respectably  and happily married, has been staying with his aunt while Valmont was there,  while her husband is long absent. Valmont spoke of her strong beauty, her  untroubled Christian faith, her inviolate principles. And he spoke of how he  had made such an impression on her that she had begged him to leave, to return  to Paris out of her harm’s way. </p><p>I do not know – who am I to judge? – but I cannot quite  believe the Vicomte when he speaks of his own pure feeling for the poor woman,  when he claims love and devotion. I have the unhappy impression he is playing  yet another game, that these emotions are truly strange to him. He cannot mean  what he says. </p><p>Be that as it may, we agreed that neither of us can really  hope to ever win the women we most admire. And once we had that settled, the  Vicomte said in lazy tones, ‘If the ladies will not please us, we needs must  please ourselves.’ I did not, at first, take his meaning. </p><p>He led me by the hand from the dining table through to the  salon, bringing one lamp with us, and sat me on a sofa. He admonished me to  remain completely still and quiet. And then, standing, leaning over me, he  began to undress me.</p><p>First he tugged at my cravat, untied it. ‘What are –’ I  managed before he hushed me. Then he undid my coat and waistcoat and shirt,  taking slow care unfastening each button. He pushed the layers of cloth aside  until my chest was bare. I tried again to speak, and he placed a stern finger  to my lips. The Vicomte can look quite diabolical when he means to intimidate.  Then he bent his head to rasp his tongue across one of my nipples. I froze in  shock. </p><p>For what seemed like many hours, the Vicomte remained where  he was, biting and licking and sucking at my exposed chest. I had honestly had  no idea such a thing was possible. Indeed, it took most of that time for me to  realise that the sensations the Vicomte was causing me were all exquisite  pleasure. Perhaps he was giving me the chance to adjust my ideas of what  pleasure was, and of what or who could cause it. </p><p>I had never even been with a woman before, which I am  alternately proud and embarrassed to admit. I have been in the world just on  twenty years, and have had ample opportunity to lose my innocence, as so many men  of my acquaintance have. But my vows demanded temperance and moderation in all  things, and I did not take those vows lightly. As well, my heart had not been  touched before Cecile, and I knew her purity should not be early sullied. </p><p>I tried to tell the Vicomte this. No doubt he already knew  or guessed it all. Again, he hushed me. ‘Not a word, Danceny. And do not move.  I intend to take my pleasure from you.’ When I made one last effort to speak,  he kissed me on the mouth. </p><p>At first it seemed he would only cause my pleasure. For half  the night he slowly undressed me, covering every newly exposed portion of my skin  with his mouth and hands. I reached heaven three times, unbelieving. Or should  that read, ‘I reached hell’? So much for searching for the right words – as I  write this part of the night’s adventures down, I re-live it and am inspired.  It is difficult to feel penitent as I remember such joy, illicit and wrong  though its cause may be. </p><p>The Vicomte then led me to his bed and took his own pleasure  from me. I honestly cannot say the words now – I am as coy as a girl after her  wedding night. He told me again to stay still, told me there was a price to pay  for the joy he had given me. He hurt me a little, but all I feel now is an ache  for him. </p><p>We lay together for a while. I was exhausted, but couldn’t  follow him to sleep. The touch of his skin against mine was disturbing and  provoking. As the new day dawned, I quietly left him and returned home. </p><p>♦</p><p>Sober now, it is impossible to describe his intentions in a  flattering light. He meant to have me, whether I agreed to it or not. He did  not allow me a choice, would not have allowed me to voice it if I had made one.  But he also seemed to know that I would surrender to the pleasure, that I would  so thoroughly enjoy all we did. However, I cannot help but surmise a maid would  now be describing it as rape. </p><p>I must try to sleep a little before Cecile’s music lesson at  midday. I have no idea how I will face her. She can have no idea of what has  been done to me. </p><p>♦</p><p>I did not have to face Cecile – she and her mother have left  Paris and have gone to stay with the Vicomte’s aunt in the country! There was  no talk of this journey yesterday. When I pressed the housekeeper for a reason,  she stared at me as if I should have the wit to realise it without her help. </p><p>I went immediately to the Marquise de Merteuil’s house,  where I so urgently begged to see her that she received me even though she had  only just risen from her bed. Apparently our secret has been discovered –  Cecile’s mother has found my letters to her, full of talk of love and hope for  a future together. The Marquise explained that their flight was to save Cecile  from my influence, but she smiled at me as if to assure me that there is no  need to fear. Can I dare to hope that with the Marquise as my ally – </p><p>As I am writing this, the Vicomte arrives. I do not know how  to address him, how to behave, so I keep scribbling away mindlessly,  embarrassing myself further. He sits, arranges himself, his appearance as  exquisite as usual, waiting with well-bred patience for me to pay him attention.  Have I described him in these pages? His face is as cunning and handsome as a  fox’s, he has long dark hair falling back from a high and noble forehead. His  expression can change from utter ennui to passionate determination with the  speed and force of a tempest. </p><p>I at last cast him a furtive acknowledgment. He says, so  politely, ‘I have heard of your troubles with Cecile and her mother. I am here  to offer a solution.’ </p><p>♦</p><h3>9 September 1788 </h3><p>Valmont knows no limits to energy or imagination. I have  spent another night with him. Again I paid for my pleasure by surrendering to  him. It is not right, but I have few regrets. He is to help me with Cecile! </p><p>Madame de Tourvel, the declared object of his affections,  and Cecile, the divine object of mine, are both staying with the Vicomte’s aunt  now. He plans to return there in a few days – not too soon, as he wishes to  obey the banishment from his aunt’s house that Madame has subjected him to, for  as long as he can. He will ensure Cecile receives my letters secretly, return  hers to me, and promote my cause with her to the best of his ability. I do not  deserve all this assistance! </p><p>Meanwhile, he says, we can comfort each other as best we may…</p><p>♦</p><h3>19 October 1788 </h3><p>There has been little time for keeping this journal each day  as I should. I have regular lessons to conduct, as many as I have ever had –  though none can give me pleasure when Cecile has gone. I miss the sweet naivety  of her singing voice. </p><p>And I am often out of town overnight, which leaves me  exhausted but happy. </p><p>My friend Valmont insists I deliver my letters for Cecile to  him in person. So on some evenings I take the post carriage down to the town  near his aunt’s, and he generously reimburses my fare knowing full well I  cannot afford these luxuries. I give him my letters, and receive Cecile’s, and  he tells me what little news he can of her – she is leading a quiet life, and I  like to think she misses me greatly. </p><p>Valmont then talks of his love for Madame de Tourvel. He is  deliberately extravagant in his descriptions of her and of his feelings for  her, as if he laughs at himself, as if he is enacting a bad novel. But I begin  to suspect that he means every word of it – he hides from the truth, unwilling  to give in to his finer self after years of base seduction. I think he has come  to entirely mean everything he says about the woman. And she – from his words I  dare to hope his feelings are beginning to be returned. But she is married, and  there is no prospect of joy for them! </p><p>And then, when he has finished listing all her qualities and  accomplishments, then we ‘comfort’ each other. He loves me there in the woods,  like a wild creature. Once he had his carriage with him, and we were driven  along the country roads at dangerous speeds, the carriage rocking and swaying  madly, as we took our pleasure on the velvet cushions. </p><p>I am quite crazy and quite happy all at once. I certainly do  not know myself any longer. I exist but to love Cecile with my heart and  Valmont with my body. My soul belongs to both! </p><p>♦</p><h3>17 November 1788 </h3><p>It is growing colder as Paris approaches Winter, though I  feel nothing but warmth. Cecile has written, through the post this time, and  she speaks of our love in more glowing terms than ever. She swears that she and  I will be lovers no matter what happens, no matter if her mother forces her to  marry this other man. All my poor hopes were nothing compared to this wicked  and delightful reality! </p><p>Valmont, who has returned to Paris, seems amused at my  gratitude to him, but it is obviously his friendship that has not only kept  Cecile’s love for me constant, but has encouraged it to grow to full devotion.</p><p>The Vicomte is distracted these days. He absentmindedly  takes me to his bed, he talks of his own love with studied nonchalance. But he  has an appointment to see Madame de Tourvel next Thursday, and I believe he  plans to succeed in gaining her love at last. I do not know how she has held  out against his determination this long. Certainly I did not.</p><p>Cecile is to return to Paris in two weeks’ time. I am alive  with the anticipation of seeing her again – it has been too long! </p><p>♦</p><h3>23 November 1788 </h3><p>Valmont has won his love. I am sure he would secretly like  to spend all of every day with Madame de Tourvel, but of course she is married  so they cannot be obvious. Fortunately her husband is still absent – But what  am I saying? Who would have thought, a few months ago, this innocent ignorant  Chevalier’s morals would have been so led astray? Who would have believed him  capable of finding so much delightful, if illicit, love in the world? </p><p>I think that Valmont is pretending to himself that this new  affair with Madame means only as much to him as any other of his adventures. He  continues with me, when convenient, and perhaps there are other people he sees.  I have not taxed him with these thoughts – he will one day find his own truths,  no doubt. The lady he loves will help him to it. </p><p>♦</p><h3>25 November 1788 </h3><p>I am staying with the Marquise de Merteuil, at her suburban  villa. No one knows we are here. </p><p>I must confess to my complete bewilderment. The Marquise has  always been a pillar of moral society, the most blameless and proper of ladies.  She has never expressed an untoward idea or emotion, always appearing quietly  at peace with God. Her calmness always contrasted with the naive chaos of  Cecile’s lovely expression, whose every feeling was so charmingly revealed… And  yet – </p><p>And yet last night the Marquise took me to her bed. </p><p>She had invited me on this journey, she first said, to  distract me from my wait for my dear Cecile to return to Paris. And now I find  she had other intentions, she wished me for her lover. </p><p>I could not even consider disobeying her. If such a lady  makes such an offer, it would be rude and churlish and disrespectful to even  consider refusing her.</p><p>Of course, I cannot pretend the sensations in themselves are  unwelcome. But this all disquiets me. I do not know myself, or my friends, or  the world any longer. Nothing is as it seemed in my ignorance last Summer. </p><p>The Marquise surely cannot have become so lost to my poor  charms that she risks her reputation solely for me. But if that supposition is  true, then she does not deserve her untarnished reputation, for a dalliance  with me is meaningless to her. </p><p>Once again I am lost for words, and lost even for coherent  thoughts. </p><p>♦</p><h3>5 December 1788 </h3><p>I was lying with the Marquise in her Paris townhouse when  the Vicomte burst in upon us. He was greatly surprised to see me there – but  these two friends have obviously kept their affairs with me a secret from each  other. </p><p>He tells me the most alarming news – that Cecile is in Paris  and wondering where I could be after all my urgency to see her again – and that  she had been very ill. I was upset, worried for my Cecile and ashamed of my  tardiness – and the Marquise was not best pleased with me for expressing it. </p><p>I have not been chivalrous in my behaviour towards the  Marquise. But as I write this, in the cold dark dawn alone in my unheated  rooms, I find I am relieved and happy. </p><p>The Marquise will not want me again – but Cecile does! </p><p>♦</p><p>It has snowed. Everything is blanketed with pure white. I  returned home from my music lessons –which I find hard to approach with  suitable diligence these days – to find a letter from Valmont. He has arranged  for me to spend tonight with Cecile! And she has agreed to this assignation! </p><p>He has obviously said nothing to her of my absence with the  Marquise. And has proved himself the best of my friends. </p><p>I cannot wait to see my love again. And – dare I even think  of it yet – to know her completely, to give her all of myself. I do not deserve  this richest of blessings. </p><p>Can it really be considered wrong for us to claim this  happiness for our own? </p><p>♦</p><h3>6 December 1788 </h3><p>She was my Spring in chilly Autumn, and is my Summer now in  the depths of Winter! Cecile is all beauty and promise fulfilled, an apricot  rose full bloomed, a ripe peach. I could never have expected her golden  generous loving, her lithe body all mine, sweet as honey to drown in. The night  was one long unending perfection – none of the clumsy embarrassment that I  naively expected – just love unfurled and true – </p><p>A letter has arrived from the Marquise de Merteuil. It seems  unfair to taint my thoughts of Cecile, so I will leave it by for now. </p><p>♦</p><p>Cruel and foul betrayal! The Marquise has informed me that  all along the Vicomte de Valmont has been my Cecile’s lover. That he seduced  her, that it was he who first claimed her innocence (not me!) while they were  both at his aunt’s house – so much, as well, for the worth he placed on his  aunt’s hospitality! </p><p>He has abused both Cecile’s trust and mine. How he must have  laughed at this ignorant pair as he used us, as he defiled our faith in his  friendship. </p><p>I can imagine how it was with him and her – as with me, he  would have been so determined, so careless of her innocent wishes. She would  have refused him – he would not have listened or cared. He is the blackest of  scoundrels. His reputation is too well deserved! If only we had listened to all  the gossip with wiser hearts. </p><p>I have written to him. If he will not deny the Marquise’s  allegations then he is to meet me at dawn tomorrow. The honour of the sweetest  purest girl is at stake. </p><p>♦</p><h3>7 December 1788 </h3><p>Ah, he is dead, and by my hand! </p><p>There is too much feeling for this poor frame to contain –  one moment I remember my humiliation and rage at his betrayal – the next I  grieve him, I grieve for my closest friend – and then there is guilt for my  part in his death – then utter miserable confusion! </p><p>He spoke to me as he died – he warned me to beware the  Marquise de Merteuil – and then at last he talked of his love, his true love  for Madame de Tourvel. I have been crying for Valmont and his love, and for me  and my love, and I fear I will never stop the tears. One world should not  contain all this grief and anger – and all this thwarted love! </p><p>He has given me the letters he received from the Marquise de  Merteuil, to do with as I see fit. I will leave them for now, I cannot bear to  read them yet. </p><p>And he has charged me to make his love and his sorrow clear  to Madame de Tourvel. She lies gravely ill in a convent – I will go there as  soon as I can prepare myself, clean and calm myself – my shirt is patched with  blood and dirt. The poor woman – Valmont had spurned her, stupidly, cruelly. He  told me as he lay dying that he had no idea why. They could have been happy,  and now –</p><p>But I must sort these matters out for him, and put my own affairs  in order. Valmont absolved me of his death – he said I had ‘good cause’ to  fight him – but the law will not. I will be subject to a stiff penalty for duelling  if I let them catch up with me, if I do not behave with total repentance, if I  do not soon leave Paris behind. </p><p>♦</p><p>My memory is clearing. Valmont was a man with strength,  experience. He fought me, who has so little skill with the sword. Yet he lost  the duel and his life. <em>He wanted it that  way!</em> I can remember once – no, twice or even more – as we fought, he could  have finished me. But he turned away each time, let me gather myself. And, at  the last, he ran himself onto my sword. It was my fault – I do not pretend to  shirk the burden of guilt – I hardly know if he was fully conscious of his  actions – but he ensured his own death! Poor Valmont. </p><p>♦</p><p>Alas, I visited Madame de Tourvel. She is dying – the  romantics would say she is dying of a broken heart, and they would not be far  from the truth. First the shame and pain of Valmont breaking with her, casting  away all she had sacrificed for him – and now to hear of his death. And it is  clear that he died for much the same reasons as she will. She seemed to understand  that his love had always been true for her. Perhaps they had been doomed from  the beginning, by their conflicting natures if nothing else. She listened, and  then she turned away from me, from this base world. </p><p>Cecile and her mother were there. As Madame de Volanges sat  with Valmont’s dying love, I spoke to my own love. Everyone knows that Valmont  and I fought over Cecile’s honour. She is expected to turn her back on society  and return to the convent she left only last Summer. I begged her to postpone  her decision to do so, to let me talk to her on the morrow when I held my own  thoughts clearer. </p><p>I assured her of my undying love for her. </p><p>I wonder – if I tell her of my own affair with Valmont, will  she better understand me and my forgiveness of her, or will she hate me for an  unnatural creature? </p><p>♦</p><p>I cannot forget the image – my friend Valmont lying twisted,  his life’s blood staining the snow crimson, his skin as cold as the ice that  surrounded us. My lover, and my love’s lover. A man who betrayed all who cared  for him, and yet who could not live without a woman he callously broke with. A  man who died for love. </p><p>I need to talk to Cecile. If she is of the same mind as I,  then there is hope. But if she cannot understand or forgive Valmont, then we  are as doomed as he and poor Madame de Tourvel. </p><p>♦</p><h3>8 December 1788 </h3><p>I have read the Marquise de Merteuil’s letters to the  Vicomte. I have written before in this journal that I did not know myself or my  friends – these letters make a mockery of that. Everything that has happened is  capable of the most bitter and cruel interpretation. It is difficult to  reconcile the characters of the two people I considered my friends with the  fiends I now find unmasked. </p><p>The Marquise de Merteuil – she had declared war on the male  of the species in general and, in the end, on Valmont in particular. But it is  a war that Valmont will win – he asked me to expose her character to society by  circulating these letters. I will do so. She will be ruined. </p><p>She plotted for my sweet demure Cecile to be defiled, simply  to have revenge on the Colonel whom Cecile was engaged to be married to. She  introduced me to Cecile for that sole purpose. When I did not perform as  expected, the Marquise had Valmont seduce Cecile instead. All this cold  calculation for no purpose other than revenge and cruelty. </p><p>Valmont – he began his affair with Madame de Tourvel as yet  another manipulative game, as coldly scheming as his friend the Marquise. But  he ended truly loving the woman. And they both suffered for it, and he died in  regret. </p><p>My Cecile – Valmont wasn’t going to bother seducing her at  the Marquise’s behest until Cecile’s mother, Madame de Volanges, interfered in  his affair with Madame de Tourvel – then he wanted revenge on the Volanges  family. He succeeded too well – Cecile wasn’t simply ill during my absence with  the Marquise – she had been carrying Valmont’s child, but had lost it. I find I  can regret the loss of the only chance for him to live on. It is up to Cecile  to tell me whether she regrets his loving or not. </p><p>As for me – I do not know why Valmont seduced me as well.  The Marquise had told him, as my ‘confidant and adviser’, to stiffen my  resolve, to encourage me to seduce Cecile, as part of her machinations. Perhaps  he reasoned that I was unlikely to do so while still a virgin myself. Or maybe  it amused him to take her orders further and debauch us both! Perhaps he  enjoyed our mutual sympathy – he and I were both in the throes of unrequited  love. I may have been a distraction for him. Or perhaps our liaison was simply  for his own pleasure… But, whatever the reason, he always ensured I had my  pleasure from him before he took his own. Despite the cruel petty words used to  describe Cecile and me in the letters, Valmont was a generous lover. </p><p>I do not believe he told the Marquise about us – but if she  guessed, perhaps she took me as a lover to spite him. Who can know? Who can now  even guess at the reasons behind this sordid and complicated tale? </p><p>♦</p><p>Valmont could love and regret – in the end, to his own  surprise as much as anyone else’s, he could love selflessly and too well – and  he could regret his cruel behaviour. Am I being excessively romantic if I forgive  him much for that one mitigating factor? </p><p>♦</p><p>I suppose that society will expect both Cecile and me to  retire from the world – she to her convent, and me to the seclusion available  within the Order of Malta. We will certainly have to leave this place, and live  quietly, but I cannot see why she and I should not salvage our love from this  disaster, why we cannot marry and share our lives somewhere. Has not Valmont  taught us the importance of love? </p><p>The letters will be published. Madame de Tourvel’s husband,  whoever and wherever he may be, will know the truth of his wife’s untimely  death rather than having to rely on rumour and innuendo for the tale. The  Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil will be exposed – but my friend  is dead and beyond our censure, and it is justice for the latter. Cecile and I  will have our innocence tarnished in society’s eyes. The truth is more  important. </p><p>I will talk with Cecile tomorrow. If her love remains true,  then we will find our measure of happiness. I am, to my amazement, full of  hope.</p><p>♦</p>
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